Aeducan and the Duster
by The Lark
Summary: The Prince and the Pauper, Orzammar style
1. Chapter 1

**Aeducan ****and the Duster**

_A/N: On my short-lived DNM playthrough, I got lazy and gave him the exact same face model I had used for my DCM. When my noble bumped into Rica in the palace, I started cracking up, wondering what would happen if the characters were scripted to notice these things. This is what my twisted little mind came up with. Bonus points to anyone who can spot the KOTOR reference_

Lord Duran Aeducan sauntered proudly into Orzammar's Proving, with his loyal second Gorim in tow. He paused for a moment, taking in the stench of freshly spilled blood and the tortured screams of the participants in the arena. "Ah, Gorim, old buddy," he sighed contentedly. "There's nothing like a good round of blood sports to calm the nerves before dinner, is there?"

"Yeah, I'll never forget my first Proving," Gorim smiled, overcome by nostalgia. "I was just four years old, and since I was too short to see over the crowds, my dad lifted me up on his shoulders so I'd have a good view of the bloody disembowelments. Now _that's_ parenting!"

Duran scanned the arena for available seats. "Shall we sit up front, then?"

"If it's all right with you, sire, I'd rather not be in the splash zone when the blood starts flying. I just bought this shirt."

"I understand." The young prince thought a moment. "Why don't we go sit up in the balcony with the Proving Master? Then we can drop water balloons on the contestants we don't like."

"I like the way you think, your Lordship!"

The Proving Master greeted the prince profusely. "Your Lordship! We're so thrilled have you here today! Rest assured, these warriors will disembowel as many of their comrades as it takes to entertain you."

"Damn right they will!" Duran replied. "It's like, the only perk there is to being a prince of Orzammar. I'm expected to throw my life away in a hopeless war against thinly disguised orcs, everyone I know wants to assassinate me, and I can't even walk down the street without being sexually harassed by noble hunters." He tossed his hair haughtily. "I'm not a freakin' machine, you know!"

The Proving Master coughed uncomfortably. "Right, right, must be terrible."

Duran settled into his seat. "I'm hungry. Gorim, could you flag down a hot nug vendor and order us a couple of footlongs?" He turned back to the Proving Master. "So, how about a quick play-by-play to catch us up? Who's killing who this round?"

"Well," the old man replied excitedly, "the Bloodbath is over and Career Tributes have formed an alliance, but my money's still on the kids from District Twelve."

"Oh please, all they ever do is make out," scoffed Duran. "I could beat them with my hands tied behind my back!"

"Oh, you think so?" sneered the Proving Master. "Then put your sovereigns where your mouth is, bigshot!" Not giving the prince a chance to respond, he leaned over the railing to make an announcement. "Hey everybody, we've got a late entry! Our own Lord Aeducan is ready to rumble!

The spotlight fell on Duran and the crowd went wild. He sighed wearily. "Fine, fine, anything to satisfy my people's insatiable thirst for violence. Can I at least finish my hot nug first?"

"No time!" The Proving Master shoved Duran out of the box and into the arena below.

The young prince, decked out in full battle armor, landed with a mighty crash. "Umph!" He staggered to his feet, shaking the dust from his helmet and trying to maintain some semblance of balance. He glared up at the Proving Master's box. "Hey, pal, I had a knight when I came in!"

"Oh, sorry, here," the old man called, flinging poor Gorim overboard as well. A second crash ensued as the knight landed on his master's head.

"I got your hot nug, sire," Gorim babbled, shakily holding up the rather squished snack.

"Never mind that," Duran snapped, shifting his now very dented helmet. "We've got a fight on our hands."

"Ladies and gentledwarves!" the Proving Master thundered from above. "This round, Lord Aeducan and his geeky sidekick will face off against our new rising star, the Mysterious Stranger!"

"His name's Everd, stupid!" jeered a spectator. Right on cue, a fully armored fighter armed with a pair of long daggers sauntered in.

Duran brightened. "Everd? Wow, this is such an honor! I'm a big fan." He pulled out his Royal Autograph Book. "Would you mind?"

Everd hesitated, shrinking away from the book as if it was a hissing deepstalker.

Gorim glared daggers at the gladiator. "Look, man, my boss here puts his neck on the line every day, killing darkspawn and ducking noble hunters in order to make Orzammar a safer place for people like you. I think the least you can do is give him an autograph!"

In agreement, the crowd started booing and pelting Everd with half-eaten hot nugs. Raising his arms in a gesture of surrender, Everd grabbed the book, made a quick scribble, and tossed it back to the prince.

"Oh, boy, thanks!" Duran's smile faded, though, as he opened up the book and got his first look at the autograph. _With love from Ivaird Brosc…er,I mean, just Ivaird._ He scowled at the masked warrior. "If this is a joke, then it isn't funny!"

Everd just shrugged helplessly.

"What, now he's not even worth talking to? How dare you treat our prince with such disrespect?" Gorim scolded.

Everd buried his head in his gauntlet-clad hands, looking exasperated.

"What is this, the silent treatment?" Duran was fuming. "I'll teach you some manners!" He advanced on the mute warrior, sword and shield at the ready. "Say your prayers, you Silent Sister wannabe!" He charged his opponent, shield first, and Everd flew unceremoniously across the arena.

Gorim eyed the twitching heap of armored dwarf crumpled on the floor. "I think you killed him, sire."

"Uh oh." Duran poked his rival tentatively with his sword. "You all right, man?"

Unwilling to dignify that question with a response, the mute warrior dealt him a swift kick in the kneecaps. There were now two twitching heaps of armored dwarf on the Proving floor.

Gorim winced sympathetically. "Proving Master, I think we'd better call this match a draw. I'm supposed to be a bodyguard, and there's no way the king will give me that raise I've been gunning for if I let you people keep clobbering his son."

The Proving Master groaned. "Two winners? Okay, but the Gamemakers aren't going to like this." He called for a pair of stretchers, and the contestants were hauled off to their respective locker rooms.

When Duran came to, Gorim was standing over him with an icepack. "You all right, sire?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Duran replied, testing his legs for fractures. "I just hope that voiceless jerk Everd, or Ivaird, or whatever the hell his name is, is in a lot of pain too."

"We could go see him and find out," Gorim suggested. "I think they took him right across the hall."

"Excellent!" The prince and his second tiptoed across the hall, where, to their surprise, they heard voices speaking in hushed tones.

"Oh, so he _can_ speak?" Duran observed bitterly, starting to feel insulted again. "I was starting to wonder."

"We all were, sire," Gorim agreed. "But who's that he's speaking to?"

Frowning, Duran pressed his ear to the heavy stone door.

"Leske, that was way too close for comfort! We've got to get out of here!" a young male voice urged.

"Relax, there's nothing to worry about," a second voice said reassuringly. "They totally never guessed that you weren't Everd. Even though they really should have. I mean, seriously, that mute act of yours was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. Plus, Everd is a warrior, and you're clearly a rogue, what with the daggers and the kick below the belt and all."

Faren Brosca folded his arms stubbornly. "Hey, if you don't like it, then maybe next time _you_ should risk death and dishonor in the Proving while _I_ casually look on from the locker room."

"No, no, no, let's not be hasty, here," Faren's partner Leske replied nervously. "I was thinking of contributing more along the lines of giving you some acting lessons."

"Oh please!" Faren snorted. "Acting lessons from you? You don't even have one rank of Persuade skill!"

The volume of this argument was escalating by the minute, and starting to disturb the alcohol-induced coma of the real Everd, who was sprawled on the floor below. "Look out, look out…pink elephants on parade," the drunken warrior hummed dreamily.

Faren nervously pulled off his stolen gauntlets. "Leske, we've got to get out of here!"

The door suddenly slammed open. "Not so fast, brands!" thundered Lord Aeducan.

Leske and Faren froze in their tracks. "Brosca?" Leske squeaked.

"Yeah?"

"Bye!" Leske shoved his comrade at the prince as a diversion, then ran like the Archdemon itself was chasing.

"Ingrate!" Faren shouted. "Damn, this is the seventh time he's tried this. I think it's time to ask Beraht for a new partner."

Duran scowled. "Gorim, go after him. I'll keep an eye on this one." He seized Faren by the arm. "All right, "Everd", take off that helmet. Let's see who you really are."

Faren pulled off his borrowed helmet, revealing a fair-skinned, grey-eyed young man of about twenty with short, dark hair. Duran yelped, dropping the casteless rogue like a hot potato. Faren grunted. "Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Hands trembling, Lord Aeducan removed his own helmet revealing…an identical fair-skinned, grey-eyed young man of about twenty with short, dark hair.

It was Faren's turn to scream. "AH!"

"AH!"

"AH!"

"AAAAAHHH!"

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Life Swap**

"AAAAAAAAHHHH!" the identical strangers shrieked in unison.

The drunkard on the floor below them stirred grumpily. "Knock it off, or I'll run you through with…" He groped around on the floor heedlessly. "Where's my sword?"

"This filthy casteless stole it, usurped your place in the Proving, and used your name to defraud the entire city of Orzammar." Duran pointed accusingly at his strange clone.

"Oh, okay. As long as nothing important is happening." With that, Everd promply collapsed back onto the floor.

Duran shook his head in disbelief. "Is there anything this guy can't sleep through?"

"I know!" Faren exclaimed. "I actually stepped on his face a couple of times while I was suiting up, and all he did was call me 'honey' and try to snuggle with my boot."

"Don't try to change the subject, brand!" Duran snapped. "How dare you pollute this sacred event with your tainted lineage?"

Faren just rolled his eyes. "Aw, come off it, princey, you're just mad 'cause I kicked you."

"Well, maybe a little…but mostly because of the tainted lineage thing!" Duran defended weakly. " I ought to turn you in, but then I'd have to tell everyone I got clobbered by a guy who doesn't even exist."

"I do so exist!" Faren pinched the prince's cheeks roughly.

"Ow!"

"See?" The rogue smirked.

"I just meant, in an abstract social and religious context, you—ow!" Duran howled, rubbing his freshly poked eyes.

"Yeah, you definitely felt that one," Faren snickered. "I think you're in denial, buddy." He punctuated this statement with another swift kick in the prince's kneecaps.

"Ow! Okay, I believe in you! I'll even clap my hands if you want, just quit it!" the prince whimpered, reaching for his shield.

The casteless dwarf rolled his eyes. "You nobles are pathetic. You wouldn't last five seconds in my shoes."

"Oh please! You think you've got it rough?" Duran challenged. "Well, my own brothers have been trying to kill me for years. It all started in nursery school, when Trian 'accidentally' dipped my teething ring in a jar of nug poison."

"Aw, that's nothing," Faren scoffed. "My own mom tried to drown me at birth like an unwanted pet. Luckily, she was really drunk at the time, so she wound up trying to drown me in a colander."

"Hey, you're lucky you even have a mom," Duran countered. "I'm starting to think I hatched from an egg or something. I've never seen my mother and nobody has so much as mentioned her name to me."

"Well, I can top that!" Faren shouted, his anger management issues starting to show. "I'm twenty-odd years old and I've never even had a girlfriend! I mean, honestly, who is there for me? All the pretty casteless girls become noble hunters, all the ugly casteless girls become prostitutes, and there just don't seem to be any girls in the middle of the spectrum."

"Oh, don't get me started on noble hunters!" Duran roared furiously. "Ever since I hit legal age, those crazy chicks have been stalking me all over Orzammar! How many times do I have to tell them? No means no! I'm not playing hard to get, here!"

"Oh, boo-hoo," sneered Faren. "I…wait a minute!" He seized the prince by the front of his armor. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The prince's eyes lit up. "I think I am. I'll get the rubber cement and the peacock feathers, you bring the confetti and the mop bucket, and we'll meet at the old salt mine."

Faren whacked his mysterious counterpart over the head with the hilt-end of his dagger. "No, stupid! I meant that we should switch places for a while." He smiled in anticipation. "Just imagine, me, an honest-to-goodness Aeducan! I'll get more action than Charlie Sheen!"

"Hey, that's actually not a bad idea," Duran mused. "I could hang out in Dust Town, live the simple, small town life, and maybe get some home-cooked meals. Which I could eat without some stupid poison taster picking through them first!"

"Just be careful, my mom has a tendency to spit in my food," Faren warned. "So, we're agreed?"

"Agreed." Duran stripped off his armor and Faren handed over his worn set of duster leather. The young prince's eyes sparkled. "Wow, a badass gangster costume made of real leather! This is so cool," he gushed, "I feel like one of Hell's Angels. What's the name of your gang?"

"The Carta."

Duran's face fell. "'The Carta'? That's it? That's kind of drab, isn't it? You should come up with something a bit more catchy, like 'The Dusters in Dusters' or 'The Name Brands' or something."

"Maybe you should pitch that to Beraht next time you see him," Faren snorted. "In which case, I'd just like to say, it was nice knowing you." He pulled on Duran's discarded armor. "Man, this stuff stinks! Haven't you ever had it washed?"

"Are you kidding me? This armor belonged to my great-grandpa, it's over a hundred years old! Even on the gentle cycle, that kind of treatment would probably reduce it to dust." Duran sighed bitterly. "Don't get me started. My dad's the richest man in Orzammar, and yet he persists in dressing me in centuries-old hand-me-downs. I don't know why everyone's always insisting that I'm his favorite."

The two lookalikes huddled in front of Everd's vanity mirror. "Wow, how spooky is that?" Faren breathed, staring from his own reflection to the prince's.

"Wait, your brand." Duran opened up a jar of concealer and dabbed some over the telltale tattoo on Faren's cheek.

"Hey, yeah, you'll need a brand of your own while we're at it." Faren grabbed a tube of lipstick and drew a matching mark on his counterpart's face. "That ought to do. Thank the stone Everd loves to primp."

"There's nothing wrong with a man wanting to look his best," snored Everd. "Now hand me my pillow and get out!"

The pair put on their helmets and emerged from Everd's locker room turned dressing room to find Gorim clutching Leske in a headlock. "Lord Aeducan," he wheezed, while Leske squirmed like a greased nug. "I've got him, sire. Shall I call the guards and have these dusters taken away?"

"No," Faren replied. "I'd rather you let him go. And gave him all your money. And that watch, too. I bet he'd like it."

"Aw, but sire…"

"Hey, who's the prince, here?" Faren barked.

Leske took the proffered wealth and ran, as usual. Duran followed, waving over his shoulder and shouting triumphantly. "Another grand caper by the Name Brands!"


End file.
